Move Along

It's getting to be just too much.

It's All Michael Access, All The Time.

Yesterday I woke up and came out to breakfast. As usual, I turned on the TV to listen to the morning news and I said to Carlos, I wonder how long until they talk about Michael Jackson?

Five words: This morning, the latest on....

Ri-freakin'-diculous.

Michael weighed 112 pounds. He was anorexic. He was bulimic. His body was riddled with needle injections. He wasn't the biological father of the children. Debbie is the biological mother. Debbie's not the biological mother. He was broke. He was worth $200 million. He was gay. He spent $50,000 a week on prescription drugs. There is a will. There is no will. The will gives everything to his mother and nothing to his father.

Seriously, the man is dead. Leave it alone.

And those who call yourselves fans? Go home. Get out of the road in front of his parent's home; move along from Neverland. Get away from the Apollo. Do you really want your fifteen minutes of fame to be on the back of a dead man? Seriously?

You don't want to view the body for closure. You want to view it so you'll be able to talk ad nauseum for the next fifty years about how you saw it. You don't want to attend a memorial out of respect; you want a smidgen of what it feels like to be famous. If you're a true fan, you'll let the man rest in peace; something he obviously never found in life.

Look at Michael Jackson's life, and death, and the aftermath of his death.

That's what it's like to be famous.

Still want it?